Caroline Eriksson - The Watcher

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

It isn’t until after I’ve flung the door wide open and am staring into Leo’s wide eyes that I realize I should have looked at myself in a mirror on my way here.

“Whoa!” he gasps. And then, “So how are you doing, really?”

I run my tongue over my teeth, feel the residue of a coating there. My scalp itches, and I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. When I cast a quick glance down, I discover the white, sticky splotches on my T-shirt. At some point I must have eaten yogurt or ice cream. I should probably be embarrassed at answering the door in my pajama pants, but the way things stand right now, I’m mostly grateful to be wearing pants at all.

I bring my hand up to my forehead and rub the bridge of my nose. Say something, then! You see how he’s looking at you, right? For crying out loud, say something.

“I’ve… been a little under the weather.”

Leo raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“A little? I haven’t seen you for several days, not since before the weekend. You closed your blinds. You haven’t opened the door no matter how much I’ve rung the doorbell. I thought you were dead in there.”

Leo stares at me for a bit, as if he’s waiting for an apology or an explanation, but when I don’t respond, he changes his strategy, seems to decide to pretend like it’s nothing, as if everything is normal. He brushes aside his bangs and his eyes wander a little.

“That essay of mine for school, you know, the one you read? There’s one thing I wanted to—”

“Leo,” I say, my voice sounding harsh. “I look like a wreck and feel even worse. If you would excuse me—”

I reach for the handle, but he puts his hand on the door to block it, preventing me from closing it.

“OK, never mind. That’s not why I’m here.”

We look each other in the eyes. I wait.

“It’s about my mother.”

I’m not up to this, can’t do it anymore, won’t. Even though he’s still standing in front of me, it’s as if Leo glides farther and farther away, although it’s not him who’s moving, it’s me. I fall back into myself.

“Go home, Leo. Go home to your mother and father. You’d do best to steer clear of me.”

Before he has a chance to react, I lift his hand away and quickly shut the door. I lock it, too, to be sure. But he’s still out there, yelling through the door.

“She’s busy packing some bags, kind of in secret, as if she’s thinking of leaving and, like, abandoning us.”

I head toward the stairs.

He knocks on the door another few times, but I don’t turn back. Is he pulling on the door handle, too, or am I imagining that? The din inside my head is so loud that I can’t be sure.

“Go home, Leo,” I mutter even though I know he can’t hear me.

And then I’m back in my bedroom again. My computer is waiting for me on the bed, silent and terrifyingly irresistible. I get settled, take a few deep breaths, and put my fingers on the keys. And then I write, write about what I’ve known would happen all along, write the end of the story.

She stayed for way too long, but all the same the day finally came when she realized that it was time.

After everything that had happened—everything she had been subjected to, everything that was outside her control—the time had come for her to take destiny into her own hands.

There was someplace she needed to go.

There was someone she needed to visit.

After that everything would be over. Order would be restored. The filth that had been would be erased once and for all.

It would happen soon, very soon.

Light and dark, dark and light. I turn on the light when I need it and turn it off when it’s time to sleep for a few hours. Then I wake up and resume. My back is against the wall, the pillows behind me. My neck is bent over the screen and my fingers curled over the keyboard.

I’m going to pay for this. That thought runs through my foggy consciousness at some point. I’m going to pay for this with neck and back problems. But neither pain nor concern for my body will stop me. Nothing can stop me. I need to finish the text. I need to understand both the woman and the man who are part of it. If that’s the last thing I do before… before that other thing that needs to be done. My fingers slow at the thought— Yes, there’s no other way forward, I see that now —and then once again they fly across those little black keys.

Then the moment arrives, and I place the final period.

I stare at the screen with dry eyes, having a hard time focusing. I ache all over and am beyond exhausted, but I’m done, finished, through. I roll my numb shoulders in circles and stretch my wrists. Then I glance at the overly cluttered nightstand next to the bed and set my computer on the floor. I have the thought that I need to carry all these cups and plates downstairs, but I’m going to lean back and close my eyes for half a minute first.

The next time I wake up, it’s because of rattling against the windowpane. The blinds are down, and at first everything feels groggy and incoherent, but then I remember and sit up straight. My text, it’s done. I pulled it off. I did it.

I spot the computer on the floor, lean down and pick it up, and scroll through the entire document, trying to muster any form of emotional reaction. But all I feel is a vast emptiness, as if an enormous explosion has occurred, a quake with its epicenter in my chest.

I turn on my phone, whose battery has died and which I haven’t bothered to plug in until now, and it immediately chimes—three texts from my sister and just as many voicemails. She goes from sympathy to worry to sarcasm. Am I sick? Or angry? Just how long am I planning to avoid her, anyway? And what about Friday, am I even planning to show up? Or are we meeting at my place this time? It would be nice if I could at least go to the trouble of telling her what the plan is.

I pick at the scab on my calf and fidget. What day is it, actually?

There’s a message from Peter, too.

He sounds a little lost, as if he had actually meant to hang up when the voicemail picked up but changed his mind at the last second.

“That didn’t go right the other day at all… I didn’t mean to just throw that out there… I understand that you’re curious. There’s a lot more I should probably say, but since you’re not picking up, it’ll have to be like this instead…”

I finger the phone.

“I see everything so clearly now. Please come home. Let me make you dinner or… well, at least agree to meet me for coffee.”

Then there’s a rustling on the other end, and the quality of Peter’s voice changes.

“Elena, what I actually wanted to say is that I love you, always have, always will.”

I can almost see him in front of me. His beautiful face with the slightly crooked nose, how the corner of his mouth twitches in that particular way when he has something important to say. Then he’s gone, and the message is over. I press the phone to my face.

“I love you, too,” I murmur.

Scarcely an hour later, I’ve taken a shower and located my printer in one of the moving boxes in the living room. I return to the bedroom, dry my hair, and put on clean clothes. It feels like I just shed my skin. In a way that’s exactly what I’ve done, peeled off the old and allowed what was hidden beneath the surface to emerge.

It takes a while to install the printer, but eventually I succeed. I open the file with my text, hit print, and watch while the paper starts feeding into the machine. One by one, the pages land in the tray, warm and upside down. While I wait, I listen to Peter’s message again.